


A Spoonful Of Medicine Makes The Sugar Go Down

by Brokensoul



Category: Once Upon A Time - Fandom
Genre: Anal, Begging, Comeplay, Detective rabbit, Dom - Freeform, Drugging, Fisting, Fucktrain, Golden shower, GoldenHook - Freeform, Handcuffs, Madness, Maiming, Mention of pedophile, Multi, Restraints, Rumpled Rabbit, Threesome, Tilly is 16, Videotaping, Violence, Water Torture, Weaver is 56, Whipping, breaking bones, dubcon, forced blowjob, gagging, it’s nasty and kinky, lets just say... don’t read it, pain play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-01-29 05:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokensoul/pseuds/Brokensoul
Summary: Multi chapter. RumpledRabbit, GoldenHook, HookedRabbit





	1. One Pill For You

Tilly’s eyes felt like they were glued shut. She moaned and turned her head, trying, and failing, to lift a hand to pry open her eyelids. Her head felt like it weighed too much, her eyelids paralyzed. She searched her memories of the night before and could not account for the feeling. Last thing she could clearly remember was sharing a sandwich with Weaver, the detective she worked as an informant for, and had a strong and inappropriate attraction to.

Tilly once again attempted to lift her hand, and encountering resistance, realized it wouldn’t move. Panicking, she forced her gluey eyelids open and looked down to see that both wrists were tied to the stout arms of the wooden chair she was seated in. Attempting to stand, she then saw that each of her legs were tied to the chair’s thick heavy legs. Even worse, she was naked.

Tilly shouted, her voice sounding hoarse, then shouted again. When her screaming produced no result, she forced herself to calm down and take stock of her environment. Being a street urchin, used to taking care of herself, Tilly was tough and streetsmart. “Figure out your options.” Number one rule. Staring around, calming her breathing, allowed Tilly to deduce she was in a familiar place. Weaver’s living room. OK. Probably she had gotten out of hand (as she sometimes did) and Weaver had restrained her for her own safety.

Just then Detective Weaver entered the room. He looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed. His hair was disheveled, he wore jeans and carried his belt in his hands, as if preparing to get dressed. He looked fantastic. Tilly swallowed audibly.

“Whatever I did, Weaver, I’m sorry, honestly. I promise to do better.”

“Oh Tilly, dearie, you surely will.” Weaver began to wrap one end of the leather belt around his right hand, his eyes glittering and one side of his mouth quirking up in a sly grin.

“Wait,what the hell did I do last night. The last thing I remember is eating that sandwich you brought me.” Tilly tried desperately to remember how she had gotten in this predicament. Why did Weaver look so strange? He appeared drugged, his eyes sleepy. 

Weaver continued grinning his crooked grin. His eyes slid over her body like a vile touch. 

“Darling, I suspect you took one too many of your sleeping pills, lucky for you I brought you here rather than taking you down to the station.” 

He dropped the hand holding the belt to one side, using the other hand to test that her restraints were holding tight. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his hand ran up from the ropes at her ankle, dancing lightly up to the inside of her knee and the to the point where her her legs met. Pressing there lightly at first, and then more firmly, insistent, as his eyes darkened and his breath quickened. Little bitch had teased him for so long, and she had teased a man who didn’t believe in self denial. Weaver’s hard cock twitched and his sick grin grew. His vision was ruby with repressed rage. 

Tillys breath quickened as well, with fear and realization. 

“I didn’t take any sleeping pills. You put something in that sandwich!” Tilly’s breath hitched from both the betrayal and the way Weaver was touching her. She shivered in terror, she hated not being in control. 

Weaver looked at her and his cold eyes crinkled at the corners with dark amusement. Her fear smelled wonderful and his nostrils flared to take in the scent of it. 

“You’ve teased me for so long. You thought I was a harmless old man you could play with, tempting me with your young innocent body. Oh, sweetheart,” here Weaver stood up, chuffing snidely and obscenely palming himself, “I am far, far from harmless.” Weaver felt the fury building up, the raging emotions he always had to keep an iron grip on in her presence. She had cast some sort of spell on him, he could no longer control himself. And what’s more, he didn’t see the point at the moment. 

Weaver moved forward, pressing his jean covered crotch into Tillys face. She inhaled his autumn scent of bonfires, candy, wind and spice. Much as she wanted to hate him for what he was doing to her, she couldn’t help her reaction to him, it was like magic. Something about him brought up every dreamed up happy (as she had none) childhood memory, so desperately wished for. Every trick or treat missed, every carnival unattended, every candy apple uneaten. As Weaver touched her hair, Tilly smelled funnel cake, cotton candy, and heard crisp brown leaves crunching under the running feet of laughing carefree children.


	2. Remedy

Weaver stopped and hitched in a shaking breath. He wanted to hurt her and so much didn’t want to hurt her. Her wishes were so much his own, it infuriated him. It made him want to kiss, to strangle, to hug, to comfort, to kill. His whole body trembled with contained rage. Weaver looked down on the woman child who was almost a daughter to him, he felt panicked. He’d certainly never asked for this, this burden. He had plenty of his own howling emptiness, thank you. He owed her nothing.

She was so achingly beautiful, though, and her soul was equal in all ways to his own lost and tattered one. Her mad blue eyes overflowed with shocked and betrayed tears. Fuck it all! And fuck his own cursive, looping morals. 

He snarled at the girl, his natural viciousness winning out, and fisted his hand in her blonde hair. He crowded his body up against her, looming over her and then leaning in threateningly. Tilly felt his hot breath stroking her ear as he hissed, “You are going to pay for your error in thinking, darling.” He bit her neck, hard, and chuckled , a velvet sound, but at the same time dangerous and brittle as frost on glass. Reaching his hand down to his zipper, he kept twisting one hand in her hair, pulling it maliciously as he freed his hard cock with his other hand, pumping it slowly and sighing.

Tilly wept, silently and wretchedly as Weaver forced himself into her sobbing mouth.  
Groaning, he pushed his cock to the back of her throat, forcing himself as deep as possible. He thrust again and again, grunting in equal parts pleasure and misery, holding tight to the back of the girls head as she tried desperately to breathe.

“Look at me Tilly. Face the darkness, that’s all I’ve got to give you, sweetheart. I am nothing else.” It may be a bitter pill for her to swallow, but it was the unvarnished and vile truth, he knew, and it fueled his rage to burn out of control. He felt electricity in the room, like an upcoming thunderstorm, and it swept him up in its power, tore away all self control. 

Tilly shook her head, whether to deny it or to dislodge the suffocating organ in her throat was impossible to say. Along with tears, drool was leaking from the sides of her mouth and she was afraid she was going to pass out. Tilly huffed through her nose in a terrible effort to get some oxygen to her starving lungs, gagging and pulling uselessly at the ropes that bound her. 

At her pleading sounds Weaver moaned and gasped, merciless, his hips stuttering violently, he grasped her head with both hands and ground himself into her as hard as he could, his glute muscles bunching and his legs straining. Fucking her face, over and over he pounded into her bruised mouth, it was hot and wet and hellish to him. He wanted it to stop, oh he wanted it to stop! He wanted it to go on forever.

“Tilly,” he groaned. His trembling hands were pulling her hair out by the roots, causing her excruciating pain. Stars danced on the edge of her vision, and Tilly struggled to remain conscious. Weaver’s moans escalated to a shout of ecstasy and despair as he pulsed deep into her throat, filling her mouth to overflowing with a taste simultaneously of ashes and cinnamon apples. He remained there a moment after, rubbing himself against her, the soft skin of his belly caressing her face as she cried and inhaled his fairground scent, come leaking out through her abused lips and pooling on her naked breasts. 

Weaver collapsed to his knees beside the weeping girl, his hands releasing his grip on her hair, only to run through it gently and then cup her cheek with a butterfly fluttering touch. Soft fingertips tracing tear tracks, so tentatively, sweet and light as a leaf floating on chill breeze. 

Tilly tried to turn her head to see Weaver’s face, but it was bowed and hidden in shadows. Suddenly he stood, rearranged himself, and strode angrily out of the room.

But not before Tilly saw the tear that rolled from his chin and splashed to the wooden floor.


	3. Palliative

Weaver shrugged into his leather jacket and slammed out of house. He was so damn PISSED, stalking to his car withhis lip curled up and the tiny muscles in the corner of his eye jumping. Everything seemed to be coming apart, everything he’d so carefully planned slipping through his hands, where was the damned control! This obsession had to end. Things weren’t supposed to have gone down like this, and it frightened him, his emotions having gotten the best of him. He had to get his careful plan back on track or he risked losing everything, and the fear made him rage. Weaver knew one thing only that would soothe his temper, it always worked. Slamming the door of his detective’s car, he headed to the station. After coercing Rogers into accompanying him, he would go to the warehouse. There, he could ease some of his out of control fury.

Parking and stalking into the old police building,Weaver spotted Rogers, leaning on the desk of an attractive female duty officer, his chest stuck out and a come hither smile plastered on his too pretty face. Weaver smirked, typical. Rogers’ posturing irritated him for some reason, and a look of contempt settled on Weaver’s stony face. He swaggered over to the desk and crowded into Rogers’ personal space, making the man back up and lose his superior expression, to be replaced by one of slight alarm. Weaver felt a smug petty triumph. You had to get your kicks where you could. Of course, his strong opportunist streak was what put him over the edge and caused him to snag Tilly before he should have. Have to watch that.

“If you could manage to tear yourself away from your oh so important harassment of our female officers, we have a bit of actual police work that requires some attention. Nothing important you understand,” Weaver sneered nastily,”just that employment that you actually get compensated for.” To his delight, Rogers flushed.

“Of course,” Rogers slipped into his coat, his face abashed. He slanted his dark eyes up at Weaver, “Ready for work. What’s the job at hand, oh great Sherlock of America?” He hurried after Weaver as the man stiff armed open the precinct door and strode toward the car.

Weaver grunted disdainfully at Rogers’ puerile joke. “I’ll fill you in on the way. Get in.”

Weaver didn’t say anything as they drove, just seething silently. Eventually he pulled up to a decrepit and shabby looking corner strore. “I’m going to get some coffee, do you want a cup?”

“Aye, Black, like your heart.” Rogers laughed merrily.

Exiting the car, Weaver murmured to himself, “You have no idea.” But Rogers was about to find out for himself just how true that statement was.

 

When Weaver came back out he was holding a cardboard container with two steaming cups and a brown paper bag. He slid back into the front seat, handing his partner a cup and laying the greasy bag on the seat between them. As Weaver pried the plastic lid off his cup, the heady dark aroma of coffee filled the vehicle. “This place is a rat infested hellhole, but they make the best cup of coffee in The Heights.” Weaver ripped open four little bags of sweetener and poured them in his drink. He had a taste for sweet things, no doubt. 

“Here,” he offered an oily looking pastry to Rogers. “You’ll need your strength for the work ahead.”

Rogers glanced pointedly at Weavers’ soft and rounded midsection. “No thanks, mate, some of us watch our figures.”

“Suit yourself.” Weaver ate the pastry delicately, with obvious satisfaction and without a bit of shame. Much as he did everything.

“So what is this physically exhausting job we’re going to undertake today?”

“I’ve recently come to have a scumbag in my custody who knows the location of an object I’ve been trying to locate for quite awhile. We are merely going to beat the answers I seek out of his sorry hide.” Weaver gave a wicked grin and started the car.

Rogers looked shocked. “Where is this man if he’s not at the station? What do you mean, “in custody”? What are you up to, Weaver?”

Weaver glanced at Rogers with a raised eyebrow and a crooked half smile. “If you haven’t got the stomach for the job,” he said sarcastically, waving an airy hand,” Then you and your trim figure can pull up a chair by the fire and just watch. I’m betting you’ll learn quite a bit.”

Rogers looked reluctant and uncertain and Weaver laughed unpleasantly. “Don’t worry, sweetie, it’s not as if he doesn’t deserve it, the man is a known pedophile, a defiler of very young children. I’m doing the Heights a great service.”

“This is not regulation,” muttered Rogers, feeling like a stodgy priss.

Once more Weaver snickered demonically, “Get that stick out of your ass, Rogers.” He was pleased to see the cop’s face turn a sullen brick red. Weaver was already feeling more chipper.

They eventually pulled up to a rusty and abandoned looking warehouse. Pulling on a pair of leather gloves, he walked around to the trunk, popped it open, and began pulling items out as Rogers watched, wide eyed. In one hand he held a large leather hold all, and the other gripped a large iron bar. Weaver cocked his sinister smile at Rogers. “Ready?”

“Look, Weaver, I’m not sure about this. I know you’re a great detective, probably the best, but something doesn’t smell right about this whole setup.”

Weaver set the bag down abruptly, and snarling ,grabbed the other man by his shirt collar, twisting it viciously. Leaning into Rogers face menacingly he spoke low and slow,”Look you, I know very well why you you joined the force, and I know your motives aren’t all that selfless. I know exactly who you’re looking for and why. I also know I can find her, and I’m probably the only one, so if you ever want to have a real family I strongly suggest you cooperate here. You help me, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” Weaver let go of the cop so abruptly that Rogers stumbled. “Do we have a deal, dearie?”

Rogers was stunned. Weaver knew about his search for his missing daughter and cruelly implied he would only help if Rogers went along with some unknown corruption. How could he hold something like that over his head, it was damn near inhuman! With an angry sob Rogers wailed,”You evil fuck! Do you have no decent human feelings?”

“Decent?” Weaver laughed maliciously,”don’t you dare speak to me of decent! I have emotions, oh yes, just not the same ones as you.” His grip tightened on the tire iron as he felt his temper flare once again. Indeed he did harbor emotions, very strong ones. Chief among them fury, rage, regret, greed, and lust. Not one redeeming feeling, however. Not. One. And what’s more, he didn’t desire one, they only made you weak, and he had absolutely no room in his broken psyche for weakness. His deepest, truest desire, he would not admit, not even to himself. The tiniest crack was capable of shattering him entirely; therefore the steely control, and the absolute fury that would burn away all weakness. Smirking at Rogers, he sneered again,”Deal or not? Tick tock.”

Rogers looked defeated, his face long as a tear tracked its way from the corner of a wide blue eye to get lost in his dark mustache. “Aye, you reptile. You have a deal.” A wing of ink black hair had fallen down over one eye, and he looked like a kicked puppy.

For moment Weaver’s expression softened, perhaps even showed an inkling of compassion somewhere in those deep dark eyes.  
Weaver said softly, “Not all of us had the advantage of a shiny happy upbringing, and those of us who were raised with pain, who grew up in darkness, we know how to recognize each other. We also know how to hurt, trap, and defile one another. And the sad truth is ... we all long for it. We may fight it, but we long for it, the defilement, the shame, the horror and misery, for to us...that IS love. It all we have ever known of love. Real love,” Weaver sighed, “we can’t know it. But,” he looked at Rogers, the truth plain for once in his soulful eyes, “I’m not lying. I can,” his voice faltered, “I can give you family.” He then turned his face away, his hands trembling.

“Let’s get to work, cupcake.” Weaver’s demeanor dizzyingly changed again. Smacking a gloved hand against Rogers’ cheek he strode purposefully away.

Rogers looked after the grim detective and closed his watery eyes for a long second, then slowly and confusedly followed, just as Weaver knew he would.

**********************

Once inside the dark and echoing building, Weaver ran his gloved hand over a bank of buttons that activated humming overhead lights. The cavernous room was flooded with bright electricity, illuminating a largely empty space. At the center of the chilly warehouse was arranged a heavy wooden chair, a blue industrial barrel full of water, and a scarred and battered wooden table containing a radio and an array of odd tools. The radio was electric, as evidenced by the long orange extension cord connecting it to an outlet in a far metal wall.

Their steps echoed hollowly as the pair of cops approached the strange tableau.

Rogers noticed with horror that a hunched over figure was seated in the chair, its’ breath visible in the frigid air of the warehouse; the ragged man had blood around his wrists, obviously from the tight ropes affixing his forearms to the arms of the chair. Frost was visible in his dirty hair, his face blue, and his upper half, naked, also blue with cold. The man did not so much look up or shudder at their approach.

Weaver strode up to the man and viciously fisted his hand in the poor wretch’s hair, leaning his face down and hissing, “Ready to talk now, darling?”

The man raised his face, which was black and blue, lacerated and bloody, one eye swollen angrily shut, and merely moaned miserably.

“What the hell?” Objected Rogers, looking appalled. “This is too much! Has this prisoner even had food and water?”

Weaver laughed heartily. “Let’s ask him, shall we? Sweetie,” he grasped the man’s chin and forced his shaking face up,”Would you care for some more more water?”

The man spluttered, terrified,”No, please, please no! Please no!”

“Oh, I rather think you would,” purred the detective. “I wouldn’t want my partner here to think you’d been mistreated. He’s sensitive about these things, you see.” Chuckling darkly, Weaver pulled a knife from the leather hold all on the floor and proceeded to cut the rope restraints binding the prisoner. Staring insolently at his partner, Weaver dragged the stumbling man over to the blue barrel and by the hair and thrust his head under water. Weaver looked calmly at Rogers while he held the man under, daring him with cold eyes to object. Rogers looked miserable, broken, but didn’t say a word. Weaver felt triumph, his dick stirring in his jeans, stimulation from two different forms of power at once. He licked his lips and hauled the drowned rat up out of the barrel.

“Well,” drawled Weaver, “Perhaps I can warm you up a bit.” He held the man’s head threateningly over the water barrel with one hand and with the other picked up the radio with the other. “Possibly if your empty head and this electrical object go into the water at the same time, we might get an interesting result, what do you think?”

From the prisoner’s abjectly terrified face, Weaver could see he’d broken him, the asshole would finally give give him the information he’d worked months to find. Finally. His cold heart surged with triumph.

Just then Rogers screamed. “You can’t do that! For Gods sake, this is not the way! This is not in any way legal, you cannot electrocute the suspect!” 

The frightened suspect turned inward at that, curled his frightened mind into a ball, clammed up for good. Weaver saw it, of course.

Weaver, more enraged than he could ever recall, fumed at Rogers,” You absolute goddamn fool! You stupid cunt!” He spluttered with rage, all his usual urbane elegantness gone. His eyesight red, Weaver threw the prisoner on the floor. He kicked the useless fool in the stomach, the gonads, the shins. He screamed his hopeless frustration as he kicked the man in the back with all his considerable strength, rupturing the kidneys. He turned around and found the tire iron, relishing in its cold hardness, and brought it down with a crimson hate on the toy’s shins, breaking that bone over and over. Once the lower legs were a pulp, he went to work on the doll’s crotch, not letting up till the pretty crimson paint stained the floor. 

Weaver started to return to himself, slowly, the haze lifting, floating back to earth. He became aware of the coppery smell of blood, the gore dripping off the iron bar in his glove covered hands, the warm blood splattered on his face, the absolute raging steel hard on straining his pants.

Dropping the metal bar with a clang, Weaver stalked over to Rogers, who flinched and backed up. Weaver noticed Rogers’ eyes dart to his bulging crotch. Interesting, he thought. 

“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” Weaver hissed, baring his teeth. He pointed a long finger at Rogers and hissed,” You just fucking stand right there and don’t say another fucking word.” 

Turning around, the older detective once more grabbed the prisoner by the hair and pulled him out to lay prone on the concrete floor. He picked up the wickedly sharp looking knife. Weaver then used his index and pointer finger to force open the unconscious mans mouth and extract his tongue.

“What..” Rogers then clamped his mouth shut.

“What, What. I’ll tell you what. Can’t have the pervy prick running his mouth, now can we?” With a lightning fast move the detective reached down and sliced through the man’s tongue, casting it aside. “Come on, we’ll get nothing else here.” 

Weaver looked at Rogers, who was staring slack jawed as the detective removed his bloodied gloves and stuffed them in the leather bag. “Did you touch anything in here?” 

“What?” gasped Rogers. 

“Did. You. Touch. Anything. There’s a good chance that pedo there won’t survive, and you don’t want to be accused, do you?” 

“No no, of course not, what?” Rogers was a stammering mess. “We have to do something.” 

Weaver sauntered up to him, amused. “You’re a fool, Rogers, but not that much of one, and I am no fool at all. We both already know exactly how this will go, so let’s not bother pretending. It’s tiresome.” 

Weaver pressed in closer, noting Rogers’ dilated eyes and heaving chest. These could be symptoms of fear, but Weaver suspected otherwise. He kept pushing forward, backing the cop up to the wall, crowding in close. 

“Tell me,” he breathed,”Did you enjoy the show?” Weaver pressed a jean clad leg between Rogers’ thighs. “It surely did the trick for me.” 

“What are you doing?” squeaked Rogers, trembling slightly, “I don’t-“ 

“Save it!” Weaver hissed, “I saw the look in your eyes there. Im a detective, remember? And a damn good one, so just save the pitiful denials.” He cupped a hand against Roger’s neck and heard the man’s breath hitch. His lips quirked in dark amusement and he asked,”Why is it that your heart is racing?” Leaning in his breath fanned over Rogers neck and ear, raising goosebumps. “Is it fear, or something else?” 

Weaver’s hand left Rogers neck and traveled whisper light over the cop’s chest, down his belly, and stopped at his groin. “What have we here?” Weaver breathed, “Maybe you’re not such a prude after all.” He gave Roger’s swollen cock a hard squeeze and laughed. 

“Come on pretty boy, time for that later. We’ve got more work to do.” With that Weaver picked up his bag and walked away, and after a minute the shell shocked cop followed, feeling like he was about to cry. 

********************

When he got back to his house that evening, Weaver was exhausted, but feeling much better. Even though he hadn’t gotten the information he needed, it was only a matter of time, and the violence had exorcised much of his rage.

In the living room, Tilly was still tied to the chair, fast asleep. Weaver brushed the hair out of her face and she opened her eyes at once, looking at him silently. Weaver began to untie her.

“Are you letting me go?” Tilly asked.

“No dear. You belong here now.” Tilly nodded as he helped her stand. She was stiff and shaking. “Here, let me help you to the bathroom.” Weaver held her elbow and led her into the guest room. “The bathroom’s right through that door, there are clean towels and a toothbrush. When you’re done, there are pajamas in the dresser. Everything you need has been provided. I will bring you dinner here in an hour. Now, do I need to lock you in, or will you behave? Trying to run away will end badly for you.”

“No, I’ll be good, I promise.”

Weaver nodded and left the room.

Preparing dinner in the kitchen, Weaver thought about Rogers. Now that he had some leverage over him, it would soon be time for the next stage of his plan. Tomorrow he would start preparing the girl. Oh, she was a sweet thing, and he would savor teaching her what she needed to learn. Everything was going to work out in his favor, no doubt of it. Her mental instability made her pliant, easy to control, and if she did get out of hand, well, he had the means of addressing that too. He sighed with pleasure. 

When dinner was done, Weaver prepared a tray and took it to Tilly’s room. He knocked at the door and heard her call out to enter. When he came in he could see that she had bathed and combed her hair. She looked mouthwatering in the short blue pegnoir he had bought her. He could see her nipples through the thin material and his dick twitched with interest. 

“Here,” he handed her the tray. “It’s chicken divan. Enjoy.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Tilly looked at him nervously.”Will you stay with me while I eat? I’ve been alone all day.”

“Yeah, alright, if that’s what you want.”

Before she finished eating, her eyes began to droop and her head fell forward. Weaver removed the plate from her hands; the drug he’d put in her food worked fast. He set the tray on the nightstand and then eased the girls soft body down on the bed. Lifting up her gown so he could gaze on her nudity, Weaver withdrew his cock and began stroking. Having her here was going to be so satisfying, he could do whatever he wanted with her. And he wanted to do plenty. Gasping and straining he quickened his movements, spreading his wetness all around his engorged cock. Smacking sounds filled the room from his frenzied strokes as he grunted his pleasure. He fucked his fist forcefully. Recognizing the feeling of his balls drawing up, he quickly flipped her over, exposing her plump ass. Moaning, he slapped his dick on a jiggling asscheeck and spasmed, hot jism shooting all over the girl’s smooth skin.

“Oooh, uh,” he groaned, rubbing his softening cock around in the come. “Oh god.” He lay awhile in bliss, idly squeezing her bottom, and finally left her room to go sleep. Weaver padded down the hall to his own room and removed his clothes, throwing them in the hamper, which was one of only two objects in the room. Then, moving towards the other, he bent down on all fours, crawled inside the dog crate, locked it after him, and curled up naked to sleep on the cold steel.


	4. Prescription

Weaver looked up sharply as Tilly padded into the kitchen. Her eyes were red and puffy, her hair a messy golden halo around her head. She still wore the short nightie from the night before, and it exposed her long bare legs. Tilly shuffled toward the table and slumped down in a chair. Weaver could feel she was still feeling the effects of the sedative he’d given her the night before, and he handed her a cup of strong tea.

“Thanks,” the girl murmured, blowing on the hot liquid before taking a sip. Weaver watched the movements of her lips and throat with keen interest. Tilly noticed and flushed. “Where were you so late last night Weaver? I got so damn bored, I had to watch the movies in my head, old movies in my head, scenes of living, scenes of dead. What were you doing so important?”

“Now, now, dear,” the detective breathed, “curiosity killed the little cat.” He leaned over, brushing his lips across her forehead as he slid a plate of toast and eggs in front of her.

“Satisfaction brought her back,” Tilly rejoined huffily. “Tell us Weaver. “ Weaver stared at her lower lip as she pouted, remembering the feel of it on his cock. So delightful. And all his. Forever. 

He set his plate down and walked around behind her chair, settling a hand lightly on her bare shoulder. “I tied a man up. I tortured him. I stole his breath and broke his bones.” His hand traced her delicate collarbone, lightly rubbing. “I smashed his legs with a tire iron.” His hand slipped down under her nightgown to cup a full breast, and he felt Tilly’s breathing quicken. “I cut out his tongue.” He licked her earlobe and flicked her nipple at the same time, and Tilly gasped. “And I left him for .dead.”

“Naughty, naughty, Weaver,” whispered Tilly, trembling.

Leaning over her, Weaver didn’t know if she referred to his dirty deeds or or the way his hand was sliding up her thigh, and he didn’t care. He slid his hand between her legs and groaned when he found her underwear wet. Pushing aside the lacy scrap, he thrust a finger inside her, causing her to gasp. 

Tilly threw her head back and writhed on the chair as he loomed over her. Suddenly Weaver grabbed her by the hair and forced her up. Tilly struggled, but Weaver placed a strong hand around the back of her neck and shoved her forward, bending her ruthlessly over the table. She tried to stand up, but Weaver was unrelenting, holding her firmly in place. He kept one hand on her neck as he pressed into her with his body, letting her feel his heat and excitement against her backside. Weaver’s free hand slid over Tilly’s hip, caressing and moving to spread out over her stomach. He leaned over her, pressing his sharp nose into her hair and inhaling her scent. “Weaver,” Tilly breathed. 

“Quiet, darling. Don’t speak.”


End file.
